An Air Irait maintenance worker later went about the task of cleaning up the bodies. He wondered who would fly the commercial airplanes now that virtually every civilian pilot had ended up in a common grave. He hoped it would be him. Although he could barely drive a car, it was possible. In Irait, where summary execution was the commonest instigator of career advancement, the Peter Principle had been raised to high art.
He was contemplating the next stage of his career as he was cleaning out the late pilot's aircraft.
From the women's room came a dull pounding and a high voice speaking excited English.
"Let me out!" it said. It was a woman's voice. He went to unlock the door.
Out stumbled, not a woman, but a slip of a girl wearing a black-and-white optical-print dress that made him think of old Laugh-In reruns.
"Who are you?" he asked in thick English.
"I'm Sky Bluel," said the girl in a breathless American accent. She wore her hair long and straight, a yellow ribbon holding it in place. Behind rose-tinted granny glasses her eyes were wide and innocent to the point of vacuousness.
"You are pink, not blue."
"Think of me as the Jane Fonda of the nineties," Sky Bluel added. "Now, quick, take me to your leader. I have a secret plan to end the war!"
"But . . . there is no war."
"That's my secret plan. It's outta sight!"
Chapter 28
Kaitmast was an Afghani.
Kaitmast had been a simple goatherd when the brutal Russians had invaded his peaceful land. After his village was obliterated by a rocket attack, he joined the Hezbi-Islami faction of the Afghan Mujahideen. Over the course of the 1980's Kaitmast had sent many a Russian soldier back to his motherland in the "Black Tulip"-the evacuation helicopter that bore the enemy dead from the field of battle.
With U.S.-supplied Stinger missiles, Kaitmast-whose name meant "Tough" in his native Afghani-had shot down a few Black Tulips too. Not to mention assorted MiGs.
Now the Russians had slunk back to their godless land, and the only foes left for Kaitmast to fight were the traitorous Afghan collaborators of the hated Soviet-backed regime.
Now that victory lay near, he felt almost sad. Kaitmast had grown quite fond of combat. He did not look forward to returning to the goats at all. Such was his mood after a decade of conflict.
It was a moonless night when Kaitmast heard the dull sounds rolling out of Pakistan.
He snapped out of his sleep, thinking that it was the rumble of T-72 tanks. A fighting grin came over his battle-hardened features. Perhaps it was the Shouroui-the Soviets-he thought, returning for more sport. Could their soldiers have grown bored with peace as well?
His Kalashnikov cradled across his crooked elbows, Kaitmast crawled along the high barren crags of the Khyber Pass. Reaching a point of vantage, he peered down into Pakistan, his squint eyes eager.
What he saw made him blink in wonderment.
But what he heard froze his blood.
It was a high eerie keening. The winds through the eternal Khyber might have produced such beauteous sounds. It filled the clear night air like a dark wine of song.
"Allah!" Kaitmast muttered, not immediately comprehending. And because he feared what he did not understand, he lifted his AK-47 and, setting it to fire single shots, began to snipe into the great dark shape that moved inexorably toward the Khyber Pass.
Strangely, there was no return fire, no faltering of the ground-shaking thunder or the unearthly song that was like an intoxicating wine.
Kaitmast emptied his clip without result. Inserting another, he emptied that too. But it was like shooting at the wind. He began to grow afraid.
The song and the thunder did not abandon the Khyber Pass until long after the sun had risen the next morning.
When it did, it illuminated the cold cadaver of Kaitmast, the Afghan freedom fighter. Or at least such pieces of Kaitmast as had landed where the sun's rays shone. Those ragtag Mujahideen who found him later that day thought to themselves that a human being could be rendered into such ruin only by being drawn and quartered by wild horses and then the separate pieces chewed by ravenous wolves.
And when they went to see what had done this to their brave comrade, they discovered spoor like a great winding serpent track that was dotted with ill-smelling lumps of excrement.
It led deep into the heart of Afghanistan.
Over hot tea flavored with sour yak butter, they conferred over how best to deal with this incursion. After long argument, the freedom fighters were split, and they went their separate ways, each group to act upon its best judgment.
Those who elected to follow it were never heard from again.
Those whose curiosity was less keen lived.
Neither forgot to the end of their days the song they were privileged to hear.
Chapter 29
The decurion brought the Master of Sinanju a butyl rubber gasproof environment suit and matching gas mask.
Laying these before Chiun's feet, the decurion said, "Specially tailored to your size, sir. Since we're about the same height and build, I tried it on to be sure. It fits me."
The Master of Sinanju poked at the ugly slick material of the suit disapprovingly. He had seen its like before, months ago, in the doomed town in Missouri that had been decimated by deadly gases. It had been the start of the assignment that had brought him to a near-death in the cold water of a peaceless eternity.
Inwardly the Master of Sinanju shuddered at the thought. These last few months had been an ordeal. First the death that was not, and then the loss of Remo. He had seen the television transmission from cursed Abominadad, showing Remo and the girl who was Kali, their skins black in death. All was lost. All was over. One last mission and his work would be done. He would return to his humble village to live out the remaining days of his difficult life, childless and bitter.
Chiun looked up toward the decurion's expectant face.
"I do not intend to wear such an abomination," he said sternly. "I asked only to examine one of these monstrosities."
"But you have to, sir. The Apache's waiting to ferry you into Indian country. The Iraitis have gas up there."
"Then let them look to their diets," sniffed the Master of Sinanju.
"Sir?"
"Never mind," Chiun sighed. It had been a rare joke, to dispel his bitter mood. But the decurion did not find humor in it. That was the trouble with the young. They never laughed at an old man's humor. Remo would not have laughed either, but at least he would not have stood before him stiff of mien and without a glint of intelligence on his pale round-eyed face.
Chiun sighed anew. His hazel eyes glanced at the goggle-eyed lenses of the gas mask and its round snout.
"Have you many of these?" he asked the dull decurion.
"Every soldier in the theater has been issued one, sir."
"And these smelly plastic garments?"
"Standard issue."
"These brown spots-can they be removed?"
"I doubt it, sir. They are desert camouflage. We can get you a woodland version if you'd prefer, but I recommend desert coloration if you're going to go poking around in the sand."
"Only a white could fail to spy a man walking through the desert dressed for rolling in the dungheaps," Chiun sniffed.
"Whatever you say, sir."
"Can these be painted?" Chiun asked at last.
"We could try."
Chiun indicated the gas mask with a clear fingernail. "And these mask contrivances?"
"Possibly."
"Have them painted at once," Chiun ordered. "And tell my worthy Apache guide to wait. He may sharpen his tomahawk if time hangs heavy on his hands."
The decurion gathered up the uniform, asking, "What color would you prefer, sir?"
"Pink."
"Pink?"
"You do have pink paint?" Chiun inquired.
"We may have to special-order," the decurion admitted.
"Then do this. I would also like several sh
eets of pink paper and a pair of shears."
"Do you want the shears to be pink too?" asked the puzzled decurion.
"Of course not!" snapped the Master of Sinanju indignantly. "One cannot prosecute a war with pink shears. Now, be gone."
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir."
The decurion left the room wearing an expression of doubt and confusion. He took comfort in the fact that he was no longer a mere orderly, but a decurion. He didn't know what it meant, but it sounded great to the folks at home.
It took less than an hour, but the gasproof suit was returned to the Master of Sinanju, gleaming a fresh pink color.
Praetor Winfield Scott Hornworks personally laid these items at his feet. He placed the shears and pink construction paper atop the pink pile. The colors matched to within a shade.
"I heard you decided against going," Hornworks said. "Smart move. A man's gotta know his limitations, especially one your age."
"I have not," returned Chiun, picking up the shears. He began cutting the top sheet into a long pink triangle.
"How long you gonna wait, then? We got a lot of Scuds to kill, and of Maddas ain't exactly gonna wait for the Mahdi to return before he makes his move."
The Master of Sinanju cut a second sheet into an identical pink triangle.
"I have thought long on the way to defeat the foe we face," he said slowly.
"You ask me, this is a simple matter. Just go in and defang him."
Chiun frowned in concentration. "Maddas Hinsein has the sun in Taurus. If you cut off his hand, he will tell himself that he still possesses his remaining hand."
"So? We chop his legs out from under him."
"Then he will tell himself that as long as he has his brain, he is not defeated. Thus, you must lop off his head-which is what you should have done in the first place." Chiun cut a circle in the third sheet, and holding it up to Praetor Hornworks' uncertain gaze, punctured it with a pair of upraised fingers. Two identical ragged holes were created.
"That's what I been trying to get you to do all along," Hornworks said, throwing up his hands. "We gotta go after his command and control structure. Decapitate him from his army. It's a dang autocracy up there. Without Maddas, they'll fall apart."
Chiun studied his handiwork briefly and looked up. "You think we should cut off his head?"
"Not literally," Hornworks admitted. "It's not the American way to go after heads of state, personal-like."
"Then you do not know how to wage these kinds of wars," Chiun snapped.
The Master of Sinanju picked up the gas mask and the cut pieces of paper.
"If I command it," he said slowly, "could all these garments be made into this color?"
"Sure. But why would we want to? I'm anticipating a desert campaign, not a ladies' social."
"Because these garments are essential to the liberation of Kuran."
"They are?"
"According to my plan, no shots need be fired, no blood spilled."
"I like your thinking, even if I can't hardly follow it. But taking Kuran without firing a blamed shot-it would be easier to teach a pig to whistle 'Dixie.' And you know what they say about that."
Arching one faint eyebrow, the Master of Sinanju looked up as he affixed the pink triangles to the temples of the mask so they hung point-down.
"No? What do they say?"
"It won't work and you'll annoy the pig." Praetor Hornworks cracked a lopsided grin that was not returned.
The Master of Sinanju slapped the perforated circle over the silver canister of the mask intake. It stayed in place, held only by the adhesive power of his saliva.
"That is an excellent idea," he said absently.
"What is?"
"Teaching pigs to whistle. It is a brilliant stroke."
"Not that I ever noticed. And I'm from Tennessee."
"While I am away," said the Master of Sinanju, coming to his feet like pale incense wafting ceilingward, "it will be your assigned task to teach the pigs to whistle."
"What pigs?"
"The Pigs of Peace, of course."
"You ain't by chance got yourself confused with the dogs of war, now have you?"
"Certainly not. And if you can command Wild Weasels and other such beasts, why not Peace Pigs?"
Although Praetor Hornworks did not exactly follow the old Korean's logic, neither could he defeat it.
And so he asked, "Any particular tune, sir?"
"You may select one of your own choosing," Chiun said dismissively. "I will agree to delegate that task to you, since the liberation of Kuran is not dependent upon the song the pigs whistle, only that they whistle."
"I've always been partial to 'Bridge over the River Kwai,' myself."
"Acceptable. Now please summon the decurion."
"You're leaving?"
"Soon. But I wish him to try on this garment. It is a test."
"It's sure something," said Hornworks, reaching for the phone.
The decurion struggled into the garment under the doubtful eye of Praetor Hornworks and the critical gaze of the Master of Sinanju.
When it was on, he asked, his voice muffled, "How do I look?"
"Ridiculous," said Hornworks in an unenthusiastic voice.
"Perfect," said the Master of Sinanju, beaming at his handiwork.
Hornworks put his hands on his hips and bellowed, "He looks like he's going to a durn pajama party with those pink flaps hanging down. And that circle is restricting his air flow. He needs more than two holes to breathe through."
The Master of Sinanju walked around the decurion several times in silent contemplation.
"It is missing something," he mused.
"What?" asked Hornworks acidly. "A propeller beanie?"
The Master of Sinanju went to a desk drawer and removed a pipe cleaner, which he twisted into a corkscrew shape. Returning to the decurion, he affixed it to the pink seat of the suit.
"Now you done it," Hornworks complained. "You just punctured that man's protection. The suit's integrity is shot now."
"This is how you shall outfit your legions for the taking of the enemy limes."
Praetor Hornworks wrinkled his sweat-smeared brow. "Limes?" He searched his memory. "Oh, yeah, the frontline troops. My Latin is still rusty. We gonna laugh the enemy into submission, are we?"
"You are obviously an unimaginative lout. Summon the sheik and his son."
"Sure. Just let me put on my own gas mask. That dang Ay-rab has taken to bathing in Aqua Velva lately."
A moment later, Sheik Fareem and Prince Imperator Bazzaz started through the doorway.
On the threshold they came to a dead stop, their gaze drawn automatically to the ludicrous pink figure of the decurion. Their sloe orbs flew wide.
"Allah!" the sheik cried, clutching his brown-and-red robes.
"Blasphemy!" echoed Bazzaz. "Khazir!"
Faces filled with fright, they backed away. The door slammed. Their frantic feet could be heard receding the full length of the corridor.
The Master of Sinanju turned to Praetor Hornworks, asking, "Do you understand now?"
Praetor Hornworks' chin did not quite touch the rug, but it hung slacker than a discarded marionette's jaw. With equal woodenness he pivoted toward the startled decurion.
"Son, think you can whistle the 'Bridge over the River Kwai'? Let's hear a few bars for your kindly praetor."
An hour later, the Master of Sinanju strode toward a waiting Apache helicopter gunship.
"There's your Apache," Praetor Hornworks informed him.
"He looks like a Nubian," Chiun said, noting that the pilot was black.
"The LME's are all aboard. The pilot has orders to stick with you until the job's done and get you back in one piece."
"We will return separately. For I will continue on to Abominadad alone."
The Apache's rotors began whining in a gathering circle. Sand kicked up.
"What's up there?" Hornworks wanted to know.
"The man you wish me to deca
pitate."
"How you gonna do that without calling in the B-52's?"
"By calling another number entirely," said the Master of Sinanju, stepping into the rising rotor wash as if into a desert sandstorm. "Which I have done."
Chapter 30
In the sleepy village of Sinanju, poised over the cold. waters of the West Korea Bay, an unfamiliar sound arrived with the morning sun.
It brought the villagers from their fishing shacks and mud huts. Dogs barked. Children raced to and fro, as if to discover the source of the insistent bell under a rock or buried in the eternal mud that even the bitter cold of winter never completely hardened.
One man emerged from his hut with sleepy determination, however.
Stooped old Pullyang, caretaker of the village of Sinanju, Pearl of the East, Center of the Known Universe, trudged up the steep hill to the House of the Masters, which perched like a gem carved of rare woods on the low hillock that dominated the otherwise ramshackle village.
He muttered imprecations under his breath as he knelt before the ornate teak door, touching two panels with his forefinger. A concealed lock clicked. He removed a panel that revealed a long dowel of wood.
Only after old Pullyang had removed this obstructing dowel could the door be opened safely.
He passed into the close, musty atmosphere, where the insistent ringing continued more loudly.
A tall black object reposed on a low taboret. Pullyang knelt before it in wonder. The rings continued, spaced apart, but untiring. He saw that the source of this ringing was like a candlestick with an ugly black flower sprouting at the top. The object was of a dull black material, like ebony.
Old Pullyang searched his mind for the proper ritual.
"Ah," he murmured, remembering. Speak to the flower and listen to the pestle.
He took up the candlestick, plucking the pestlelike object from the forked prong from which it hung. He clasped this to his ear and lifted the ugly unscented flower of a thing to his mouth, as he had been instructed so long ago.
The bothersome ringing instantly ceased.
Pullyang spoke. "Yes, O Master?"
A voice buzzed from the pestle. Pullyang listened.
"But . . ." he began. "I did not hear that you were dead. Yes, I know that you are not sojourning with your ancestors. I-"
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